small child trying to maintain contact with an adult. His hands lay in his lap as if they had been paralyzed. The sight of them saddened her. Once, a few years ago, he had made a difficult basket in a game at the Y, and the coach had yelled in a voice that the whole gym could hear, "Nice play, Simon Singer." Trying to be nonchalant but unaware that he was giving himself away, Simon had walked down the court snapping his fingers. But now she feared the snapping was gone forever.
This seemed quite clear to her in her distant state. And not just that—but that all the boys would now lose something precious and irreplaceable. The joy in Simon's fingers might have been Percival's life. Or Izzy's occasional peace of mind when he was not worried about killing laboratory dogs, or Gideon glowing from exercise after a race. As if, inside her, all of that was the same.
"Guess who, Dad," Merle said, sitting down on the couch so that Patrick had to move over to make room. She saw then that Merle had grown a mustache. A fine, bristly fuzz of hair above his upper lip. That was why he looked so terrible. The mustache seemed to be thicker on the right side than on the left—unbalanced—but the worst part was that it was spotty in places all the way across, pale and uneven, so that he gave the appearance of an unkempt animal. Odd that she hadn't noticed.
Patrick let his washcloth drop and felt Merle's face. " M for mustache," he said, smiling. "I didn't think you'd do it."
It was a sick joke. During a recent blind spell Patrick had noticed that the twins' voices were exactly alike. She had imagined the terror: of having your son speak, your own son, and not knowing who he was. But Patrick had said, lightly, "To tell the truth, one of my main concerns is
I'm going to tell the two of you apart if these eyes don't let up one of these days." As if there were no terror at all in the possibility of going permanently blind, but only practical matters to be dealt with. That afternoon he had made a show of reaching for the twins' feet, because often in warm weather Darren would put his shoes on and Merle would not. But both of them were barefoot that day, so nothing had been resolved.
"I guess one of us could grow a beard," Darren had said, in the high, thin tone their voices took on when they were upset.
"Nothing so spectacular, please."
"A mustache?"
"Let Merle grow the mustache. Then in case I go senile as well as blind, I'll have an easier time of it— M for Merle, m for mustache."
"God, Dad, don't be so morbid." But they had all laughed, and no one had expected, then, that Merle would actually grow the mustache. Now he sat on the couch, with fuzzy hair sticking out above his lip to please his father, and Patrick's face registered not his headache, not blindness, not Percival crushed…but delight. Mag saw herself in the Keys all winter, living under a hot sun, laughing at the sick humor he would require from her to deny the darkness: making sport of his bumpings into the wall, the crash of dropped dishes, the awkward journey through a rented cottage, unfamiliar terrain. If he would say simply, "Help me," then she would resent helping—another strike against her—but she would do it. And helping would be simpler than pretending that nothing had changed, just as they were pretending now that nothing had happened in Lebanon. Yet even those observations, much as they hurt her, seemed slightly distant from her, as if she were not quite there.
Merle got up from the couch, jostling Lucifer off Patrick's lap. The cat immediately climbed back up and draped itself around Patrick's neck instead. The sight unnerved Mag : of Patrick, looking cataract-eyed, acting as if he weren't, and the cat hanging over him like a shawl. For a moment the once-removed feeling vanished and she was filled with anger. "God, how can you stand that?" she yelled at Patrick.
This seemed quite clear to her in her distant state. And not just that—but that all the boys would now lose something precious and irreplaceable. The joy in Simon's fingers might have been Percival's life. Or Izzy's occasional peace of mind when he was not worried about killing laboratory dogs, or Gideon glowing from exercise after a race. As if, inside her, all of that was the same.
"Guess who, Dad," Merle said, sitting down on the couch so that Patrick had to move over to make room. She saw then that Merle had grown a mustache. A fine, bristly fuzz of hair above his upper lip. That was why he looked so terrible. The mustache seemed to be thicker on the right side than on the left—unbalanced—but the worst part was that it was spotty in places all the way across, pale and uneven, so that he gave the appearance of an unkempt animal. Odd that she hadn't noticed.
Patrick let his washcloth drop and felt Merle's face. " M for mustache," he said, smiling. "I didn't think you'd do it."
It was a sick joke. During a recent blind spell Patrick had noticed that the twins' voices were exactly alike. She had imagined the terror: of having your son speak, your own son, and not knowing who he was. But Patrick had said, lightly, "To tell the truth, one of my main concerns is
I'm going to tell the two of you apart if these eyes don't let up one of these days." As if there were no terror at all in the possibility of going permanently blind, but only practical matters to be dealt with. That afternoon he had made a show of reaching for the twins' feet, because often in warm weather Darren would put his shoes on and Merle would not. But both of them were barefoot that day, so nothing had been resolved.
"I guess one of us could grow a beard," Darren had said, in the high, thin tone their voices took on when they were upset.
"Nothing so spectacular, please."
"A mustache?"
"Let Merle grow the mustache. Then in case I go senile as well as blind, I'll have an easier time of it— M for Merle, m for mustache."
"God, Dad, don't be so morbid." But they had all laughed, and no one had expected, then, that Merle would actually grow the mustache. Now he sat on the couch, with fuzzy hair sticking out above his lip to please his father, and Patrick's face registered not his headache, not blindness, not Percival crushed…but delight. Mag saw herself in the Keys all winter, living under a hot sun, laughing at the sick humor he would require from her to deny the darkness: making sport of his bumpings into the wall, the crash of dropped dishes, the awkward journey through a rented cottage, unfamiliar terrain. If he would say simply, "Help me," then she would resent helping—another strike against her—but she would do it. And helping would be simpler than pretending that nothing had changed, just as they were pretending now that nothing had happened in Lebanon. Yet even those observations, much as they hurt her, seemed slightly distant from her, as if she were not quite there.
Merle got up from the couch, jostling Lucifer off Patrick's lap. The cat immediately climbed back up and draped itself around Patrick's neck instead. The sight unnerved Mag : of Patrick, looking cataract-eyed, acting as if he weren't, and the cat hanging over him like a shawl. For a moment the once-removed feeling vanished and she was filled with anger. "God, how can you stand that?" she yelled at Patrick.
Similar Books
